Seven in Six
by itzaboo
Summary: A series of one-shots developed on another site that has as their thematic basis, the Seven Deadly Sins.
1. Chapter 1

**Greed:**** A desire to acquire more than one needs or deserves: avarice.**

Dr. Robert Chase had absolutely no intention of opening his eyes. The amount of light already jockeying for entrance past his closed eyelids suggested that doing so would be a serious error in judgment. Not that he had been making very good decisions recently anyway.

Chase raised his right arm to strew it across his face in a vain attempt to shut out the morning's brightness. Somewhere underneath him, his left arm was experiencing the pins and needles of restricted blood flow from the hours of pressure his body's weight had been exerting upon it.

But the pain in his left arm was nothing in comparison to the earth-shattering racket being created by the entire brass orchestra, including a very large bass and snare drum set, that was currently playing a horribly bad rendition of the theme from "Rocky" in his brain.

It was entirely within the realm of possibility that Chase would remain exactly where he was for some days, maybe even weeks. But intruding into the midst of his hangover and self pity, the sound of a familiar cough reached his ears.

"House?"

"In the flesh. Rise and shine sweet cheeks!"

Chase groaned loudly as the room became flooded with light. House moved to every one of the windows, opening the blinds as wide and with as much noise as was humanly possible.

"Wow! You must've really partied 'til you puked," said House.

"Oh he did. And I've got the pictures to prove it."

Chase's eyes flew open and he struggled to extricate himself from the wide couch in the doctors' lounge.

"I didn't know you had a smart phone Foreman. Isn't technology wonderful?"

"Indeed it is. For instance . . ."

Chase whirled around, which only increased the volume of his head's brass band, to see House studying the phone that Foreman held in his hand.

"What are you talking about?" Chase asked, rubbing the soreness in his legs, his back, his . . .

Taub entered the lounge, Wilson at his heels. "What are we missing?"

"Just photographic images of Chase's multiple conquests at the wedding last night," House replied. "Get closer Tiny so you can see better."

"I already saw the women he took upstairs," Taub sullenly replied. "Live and in person. I don't think I really need to see the instant replay."

"Oh ho. But you didn't see the FINAL play of the night. The end run, the 'Hail Mary' pass, the last touchdown," House said.

"I think '_end_ run' would probably be the best description," Foreman said smirking.

"Well since Chase's play definitely made it all the way into the _end_ zone, I'd have to agree." House said.

Taub and Wilson gasped as they, Foreman and House stared at the phone.

Chase ran around the couch, tripping over the corner and grabbed the phone out of Foreman's hand.

"See for yourself," Foreman said. "And don't worry about trying to erase the evidence. I've already posted it online."

House turned to him, a look of wonderment on his face. "I had no idea you were such a techno-geek. You have GOT to try this new video game I've discovered. It's based on the characters from different movies. Like for instance, they have this new 'Crying Game' scenario." He turned his gaze back toward Chase, a slight smile playing about his mouth.

Chase continued to gaze at the picture clearly displayed on the phone in his outstretched palm. It showed him leaving the reception with . . .

"House, isn't that the same . . . person you brought to dinner with Sam and me?"

"That's why I love this man. Never forgets a transvestite. Maybe it's because you've never met a transvestite you didn't like?"

"Chase, you dog!" Taub said. "You really DO come from a land down under."

Chase had turned various shades of green. "But how did I . . . I don't remember . . .?"

"That's what happens when you drink the obscene amounts of alcohol you consumed last night. Morning after regrets," House said. "And soreness. Never pictured you being into experimentation. Wait until Thirteen finds out."

Foreman reached over and took his phone out of Chase's now limp grasp. "And serves you right too. Maybe someone could have stopped you if you hadn't been so bent on hogging all the women there."

"Yeah Chase," House added. "I'm sure your ass will agree that I gotta go anti 'Wall Street' on this one. 'Greed: not so good.'"

The four men stood there laughing as Chase ran out to find the nearest bathroom so that he could throw up.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N - Warning: Please be advised that descriptions of child abuse follow. Not for the faint of heart._

**Before The Fall**

"Don't argue with me Bythe. He knew the rules. He knew what would happen if he disobeyed."

"But John, he's just turned 12-years old. He's . . . "

"He's not too old to learn obedience or that his actions have consequences. I'm done discussing this with you."

John House turned away from his wife's now frozen expression and faced the hall leading to the nearby flight of stairs.

"Gregory! Come down here right now!"

Bright blue eyes set in a pale, thin face appeared through a crack in the first doorway above the second floor landing. His father needn't have bothered shouting; Gregory House had heard his parents' argument, his father's side anyway, from his crouched position behind his room's thin wooden door.

Even before their dispute began, Greg had also known its inexorable outcome. Nevertheless, he was still reluctant to leave the relative safety of his room, beckoned as he was to the pain and humiliation that were no doubt forthcoming.

"NOW! DON'T MAKE ME TELL YOU AGAIN!"

Greg slid through his open doorway, pausing only to close the door behind him. There was no sense postponing the inevitable. And judging from his father's red-faced and vein-necked appearance, the longer he tried to delay his punishment, the worse it was going to be for him.

He glided down the stairs, pale and silent as a ghost. The only light in the darkened hallway seemed to be coming from the depths of his father's eyes, glittering as they were with anticipation and malice.

Upon reaching the last step, his father's hand shot forward, wrestling Greg's thin arm behind his back. John pushed his son forward, forcing him to stumble out of the open door and into the backyard.

Greg inhaled sharply at the jagged pain his twisted arm was radiating through his taut nerves and muscles. But he refused to cry out.

This was an old game between father and son and both knew their parts and the designated rules very well. Greg had learned from an early age that the more noise he made, the more he cried out, the more severe his father's attack would be upon him.

So for him, pain had become something to be conquered and tamed. The frequency of its visitation in his young life also made it a kind of friend; its familiarity a focus for his brilliant mind as his body received the brunt of his father's frustrations.

Pain also remained an eerie source of pride to the young Greg House. His ability to withstand whatever punishment his father dished out let John House know, through Greg's stalwart silence, that while his flesh could be battered and broken, his spirit remained unconquerable and free.

As father and son crossed the short space of the backyard, grey dusk descended upon them and the crickets answered the call of night by trilling their songs in the warm, still air.

Greg knew his father was taking him to the old shed behind the small rented house. He had already been there more times than he could count since the short while the family had been living there. His father preferred to dole out his penalties within the shed's confines away from the sad-eyed stares of his mother and the prying eyes of neighbors.

When they reached the door, John House gave Greg's arm an extra twist. The boy inadvertently gasped in surprise and pain, both pleasing and incensing his father. John used the leverage of his larger size and position to hurl his son to the dirt floor of the shed as he closed the door behind them.

"You know why we're here, don't you?" John House growled through gritted teeth.

"Yes sir."

"Then say it!"

"I disobeyed a direct order sir."

John nodded his head curtly. "And that order was . . . ?" he said in a low and dangerous voice.

"Not to speak. Not to ask questions."

"So why did you do it? Why did you ask a question in front of my fellow officers and their children? Why did you feel the need to embarrass me?"

"I just wanted to know . . ." Greg stopped. A deep frown tugged at the corners of his father's mouth.

"And your wanting to know made you forget my orders? Are you really that selfish? You think nothing of your family, the people around you, only what YOU want? Do you know what happens when a soldier does that in a combat situation?"

Of course he knew. Greg had heard this speech a thousand times before.

"People die."

"Exactly! Selfish people like you ignore orders and other people die."

Greg's anger at the injustice of his situation began to bubble to the surface. His resentment made him reckless. It made him do the one thing that would most certainly cause John House to fly into a spectacular rage.

It made him talk back to his father.

"The captain asked if there were any questions! I had a question!"

John's eyes seemed to turn jet black as his hand arced high behind him before rotating forward, landing heavily on his son's left cheek. The force of the blow knocked Greg down and left him sprawling on the dirt floor of the shed.

Pride, foolish pride made Greg look up after he'd momentarily caught his breath. While the blood still pounded in his ears, he shifted his weight and rose to his knees. He glared defiantly up into his father's enraged face.

John House swore loudly as he witnessed the fierce emotion roiling in his son's cobalt blue eyes. His anger rolled off him like waves of heat rising from boiling liquid.

"Insubordination!" he roared as he grabbed Greg's arm and pulled him to a standing position once more.

"I won't have it! I won't allow it! Not on my watch! Not under my command!"

"This _isn't_ your command. We're not on the base and I'm not a marine. I'll _never_ be a marine." Greg's voice, though heavy with emotion, was surprisingly low and even.

He saw his father's clenched fist a moment before it struck him. Greg's body reeled backward as John grabbed a two-by-four from a nearby bench and advanced on his son.

Wood, when applied to human flesh with an appropriate amount of force, leaves few tell-tale visual signs. It's as if the very dichotomy of the material, both its rigidity and pliability, molds itself to the human form inflicting more pain and damage beneath the skin.

Greg's thin frame, however, did not lend itself well to the task of keeping his beatings a secret. Perhaps in the hands of a lesser man, one without John House's physical acumen, the two-by-four would wreak many more bruises and welts in scale to the pain it would cause.

But although John was in the full bloom of his wrath upon his son, he went about his duty with a methodical proficiency that would shame an Egyptian slave master. And John, though incensed was not stupid. There were only so many obvious bruises to his son's face and exposed areas that could be explained away by Greg's supposed clumsiness. He therefore wielded his weapon skillfully as he focused his energies entirely on his son's concealed areas, ribs, buttocks and groin.

To young Gregory House, is seemed as though he stood outside himself for awhile. Someone else's body, someone else's moans reacted to the incessant pummeling of the hard wood across his form. For although blissful unconsciousness had been denied him, his mind rallied to take him far away from the dark shed and the unholy experience he needed to survive.

Greg lay for a long time face down on the floor of the shed. He focused on the smell of the rich earth filling his nostrils and the thudding sound of the wood making contact with his body. But after what seemed like an eternity, his father's strength began to wane and his breathing became labored as his unbridled fury was finally spent. John was puffing like a steam train, as he dropped the piece of wood back onto the bench.

Battered, bruised and bleeding, Greg rolled over to meet his father's gaze once again. Defiance still blazed there, thinly masked by a wild, naked hatred for his abuser.

"You belligerent little bastard!" John snarled.

Greg allowed a small, triumphant smile to cross his features. He tasted the metallic tang of his own blood mixing in his mouth with an entirely new flavor, the taste of victory.

"And that's the first thing you got right." Greg paused for effect. The time for him to reveal the knowledge he held had finally come and he trembled there, as if on a precipice, to savor its dissemination.

He knew his next words might well mean the end of him but he relished them in his mind and in his mouth as if partaking of a fine meal. No matter what the violence of the consequences, he was right. He had won.

"You're right _John_," Greg said committing the unforgivable sin of calling his father by his first name. "I AM a bastard. And just like I'll never be a marine, I was never, will never be _your_ son."

Something other than anger passed across John House's weathered features. Was it regret? Sorrow? Like a well-spring of emotion, John's face changed from a mask of cruelty to one that was cracked and broken, revealing the limitations of a man whose entire life was founded on bullying and deception.

As the last words passed from his lips, Greg placed his feet shoulder-width apart, steadying himself for a fresh onslaught of brutality.

But his father surprised him by doing nothing. Greg flinched slightly as John's arms dropped helplessly to his sides. He gave his son one last grave expression and then without another word, turned and left the shed.

Greg was left alone in the dark, abandoned with nothing but the company of his own tumultuous thoughts and the songs of the crickets filling his ears.


End file.
